Page 81 of Ruger's Rage
He kisses me passionately, mumbling against my lips, "You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me."
We lay in silence afterward, his heartbeat steady under my ear, until a question that's been nagging at me finally surfaces.
"Do you think..." I hesitate, uncertain how to phrase it. "Would it be crazy for me to try to contact my family?"
He shifts to look at me. "Your parents and brothers?"
"Yeah. Marco threatened them if I tried to reach out. Said he'd hurt them if they helped me." The memory still burns. "But it's been too long, and I miss them so much."
"It's not crazy at all." His voice is gentle but firm. "They're your family. They probably think the worst has happened."
Guilt twists in my gut. "Marco was watching them for a while after I left. What if he still is? What if contacting them puts them in danger?"
"We can arrange protection. Get brothers from an ally charter near Pittsburgh to keep eyes on them." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You wouldn't be doing this alone, Tildie. I'd be with you every step of the way."
The promise opens something inside me—hope I haven't allowed myself to feel since running from Pittsburgh.
"Maybe a phone call first," I suggest. "Just to hear their voices, let them know I'm alive."
"Whatever you want to do, I'm behind you." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "That's what being my ol' lady means."
I burrow closer into his warmth, marveling at how different love really is.
It’s nothing like what I felt for Marco.
This is real… real fucking love.
Before I know it, it’s the next morning, and we’re still entwined, sunlight streaming through curtains I forgot to close.
Ruger sleeps soundly beside me, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake.
I slip from bed carefully, pulling on his discarded t-shirt before padding to the kitchen for coffee.
The club is already buzzing with activity outside, brothers coming and going, bikes rumbling in the distance.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Rookie being escorted across the yard by Maddox, head down, shoulders slumped.
Despite everything, I feel a pang of sympathy for the kid.
Manipulated by a woman he thought cared about him—it's a pain I understand too well.
The coffee just finished brewing when I noticedher.
A woman on a sleek black motorcycle, parked just beyond the gate.
She's not trying to hide—in fact, she seems to be deliberately positioning herself to be seen, her helmet resting on the tank as she studies the club.
Dark hair, designer sunglasses, the confident posture of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
Bloodhound appears at my side so suddenly I nearly spill my coffee.
"Something wrong?" he asks, following my gaze.
"That woman on the bike outside. She's been watching the club for at least ten minutes."
His body immediately tenses, hand moving to the gun at his waist. "Stay inside."
I follow him onto the porch, ignoring his instructions.
